


Stronger Than Fiction

by LaughingSpock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, First Time, It's the first thing I've ever written so try not to kill my spirit ok?, John is really cool here, POV First Person, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension, though he is always cool for me even when he wines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSpock/pseuds/LaughingSpock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is an author who settles down in countryside, thanks to his meddling brother, to create his next thriller. But little he knows that his days in this remote cottage won't be as dull as he thinks.</p><p>"It sighs. No, it is me who sighed. I didn't even realized that I was holding my breath. I am on my feet. When did I stand up?</p><p>Bright eyes, maybe brown. Its stare is strong. I feel that he is looking not at me but into me. Wait- he?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Me Under That Tree

* * *

 

Damn mud! Damn forest! Maybe I should buy a new pair of shoes for this trekking sessions.

Accept it Sherlock, from now on it is your routine. You’ve passed the six month trial period. You, your experiments, your books and nature. No London, no Scotland Yard, no chase.

 

No battlefield.

 

Oh God! Can’t believe I settled down in wilderness. What now? Growing tomatoes in my sweet little garden? Famous author moves into a cottage in the middle of nature and creates masterpieces! How cliche! I haven’t even touched my foot to earth all my childhood. For years I have lived in the busiest street of London, in the middle of chaos.

 

And now, I am in a green nightmare kilometres away from London. The nearest town is five km away from here. If it was not my experiments and characters I’d truly get mad here. I have no Mrs. Hudson to deal with my house. The only human being I get in touch to is the weird girl who works in the town lab, Molly. She, much to my surprise, lets me use lab equips. I don’t know anyone except her. Well, saying ‘know’, I mean being in touch to; cause it took me three days to know towners. Everybody is so predictable that you don’t even have to observe. It takes a look to figure them out.

 

Is it a loss? Of course not. The people live here are two times duller than ones in London. Crime rate is zero. There is no murder, no explosion, no robbery, no gun fight. God, they don’t even have traffic accidents here! Why would they commit crime anyway? People do illegal things because of their passions. They kill people who block their way. They make devious plans or steal things necessary to reach their goals. But not here. The people of this town are no different than sheep. Their sole activity is consuming calories!

_There._

_Boletus edulis. Not poisonous. It can be consumed raw._

_Yes. Amy’s boyfriend – I must give him a name. He likes cooking. Mostly French. Or Italian – yes, it requires less effort. Suitable for his backround. A few paragraph about their little domestic. Draw attention to the boyfriend._

There is nothing in the fridge. Not even milk. I hate this little stuff. If I had brought Mrs. Hudson here… But she wouldn’t have stayed long. She has Mrs. Turner and now her new flirt, the bald retiree. Maybe I should find someone for house chores. For laundry and kitchen stuff. Twice a week would do it. An old lady? No, they love small talk. A quiet one, if possible mute. I don’t remember anyone mute in the town. I will ask Molly.

 

I didn’t have to deal with this kind of crap in London. The time I used to spend at home was a couple of hours a day. For transferring my notes to computer and refreshing myself. I haven’t written any of my stories in my study. My thrillers are born in the alleys of the city. The characters are mostly real people on streets. The butcher who bites his nails, the boy with angel tattoos, the lawyer who has panic attacks after each trial, Mrs. Hudson’s gambler neighbour, bad cabbie… They live in real life. They curse at bad traffic. They lie, they cheat, they fight.

 

Though I take some notes, I form most of my thrillers usually in my mind palace. I write my stories in crime scenes, not in the comfort of Baker Street. Or I used to.

Till all the officers of Scotland Yard decided to hate me for being more clever than their whole investigation team.

 

Their boss, DI Dimmock is one of the stupidest creature in the planet, but he used to let me in crime scenes thanks to Mycroft. I don’t know if he bribed or threatened them, I don’t care. The important point was, I had even access to cold case files if the current ones were not enough. But a murder case changed everything seven months ago.

 

All my life, I avoid stating the obvious because, well it would not be obvious if needed to be stated! But in time, I began to think people are so blind that they don’t even see the realty before their own eyes. And when I told them their addiction from a shaking hand, or their cheating husband from a pair of cuff link they started to call me ‘freak’.

 

I don’t really care it in my daily life, I even use it to get rid of unwanted attention. However Mycroft insisted me not to tell my observations in crime scenes. He thought my genius is irritating for those less clever people. And if I irritated SY too much, I would loose my privilege in crime scenes. So I avoided sharing my deductions.

 

I managed it to some level, apart from getting some glares or whispers from officers until Dimmock was assigned as new DI. The previous was also an imbecile but he at least had decency to correct himself if told. But Dimmock had too much self confidence compared to his little brain activity.

 

So when we found a dead man lying in his flat with a gun in his right hand; a man who was obviously left handed considering the calluses in his left forefinger, and position of furniture, and keys in his left pocket ... ; I could not stop myself interfering because the imbecile thought it was suicide! Everything is blurry after I told him his brain activity was equal to a seaweed’s. But I remember him shouting and kicking the officers who tried to prevent him from attacking me, while I was telling him that his wife wanted a divorce. Since then I am not allowed to crime scenes.

 

When I realised I will never observe real cases with SY again, I began to look for cases myself. I was following suspicious people who I came across on streets to dark alleys. Most of the time there was not even anything extraordinary. They were meeting someone, buying drugs or going their home in a shorter way. I run across a thug meeting or a man being beaten to death a few times. They sometimes tried to chase me when they noticed. I got a few beating and cuts. But overall I could not find something useful to me.

 

After a few weeks, my meddling brother thought it was ‘dangerous’ for me to chase criminals and arranged this cottage for me. He said that I would have gotten in trouble if I had gone like that. He was probably right, even so it did not prevent me hating him.

 

So here I am. Walking in the forest and taking notes about my new thriller.

 

_Amy’s obsession with purple. Purple socks, purple shoes. The day she is murdered. She wasn’t wearing purple. Why?_

 

 

Everything is a mess. I must put these notes together. It seems dry enough under that tree. This forest is so dense. The ground is still damp though it hasn’t rained for two days. It’s not a comfortable place to write but I figured that I work better here than home. Oxygen rate maybe?

 

_So. Amy._

_A girl who loves purple socks. She lives with her boyfriend. Long time boyfriend. Over a year?  It is enough time to prove that you put up with another human being, right?_

_She has glasses though she doesn’t wear all the time. Not well educated but loves books. A secretary or… cashier. Yeah it would do. It also explains fats on her stomach._

_An ordinary life. So ordinary that it is a wonder why someone would want to kill her. Oh, but she has a strange family. A sister maybe. Not in the beginning, later. We don’t know her yet. Even Thomas doesn’t know her. Yes, boyfriend got a name and it is Thomas. Or Tom? Why would it begin with ‘T’? Amy and Thomas. Amy and Tom. Tom and Amy. Yeah, definitely Thomas. Why doesn’t she eve---_

 

Wha…

 

 

 

It … When?

 

 

 

I didn’t even…

 

  

 

It is like a gif.

 

My forest picture. Me, in the center of it, writing frantically. Then a figure joins this picture. Or it has always been there, like that, and just stirred. No idea. But there.

On four legs, rigid. Chin is up. Eyes are fixed. _On me_?

It’s tail shaking periodically. First left, then right. Again and again. It is waiting.

 

_Or measuring_.

 

 

A wolf? Seems bigger, taller. It is _huge_. Tilts its head to the right.

 

_Like asking_.

 

 

It sighs. No, it is me who sighed. I didn’t even realized that I was holding my breath. I am on my feet. When did I stand up?

 

It is taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly. It seems as if its torso is swelling bigger and bigger with each breath. It has light brown fur mottled with grey. Bright eyes, maybe brown. Its stare is strong. I feel that he is looking not at me but _into_ me. Wait- he?

 

There are barely ten steps between us and I still don’t know what to do. I can’t move an inch. I can’t even blink. Each passing second his reality decreases instead of increase. As if he is going to disappear suddenly and I will never know if he is a hallucination or not. What if I get close to him?

 

He is moving. Slowly. Three steps to the right. Three steps to the left.

 

His eyes are still on me. Maybe he is waiting for my next move. I take a step forward and he …… snorts? It must be a harsh exhale. But it is definitely a snort to my human ears. He is going to leave if not plans to eat me. Not enough data. I must do something before it is too late.

 

A shallow idea crosses my mind. I have my cell phone in my pocket. What if I take a photo? I must prove myself that it is not a daydream, right? I take a hesitant step. Then another. He stretches his head. He is _smelling me_. Almond shaped eyes watching me.

 

 

My heart is in my throat. Every beat rings in my ears. So close. So..

 

 

 

A leap.

 

 

 

And he is gone.

 


	2. Come, Bring Me A New Puzzle

 

* * *

 

“ I am saying this for the last time Sherlock. I want the first copy till Friday.”

 

“ Not possible. I am still working on details.”

 

“ What details are you talking about? Still that experiment with hair- or whatever?”

 

“ I don’t want to spend my precious time chatting with you. So if you don’t have something really important to-- ”

 

“ Damn it, Sherlock! You are not bloody Marie Curie! You are a writer.”

 

“ Do try not to be ridiculous Lestrade. I have never been interested in radioactivity.”

 

“ Sherlock! Friday. And it is final.”

 

“ I will send you a copy when I think it is ready. It doesn’t speed things up your calling twice a day.”

 

“And Lestrade. Do tell your secretary that she can spend her time more efficiently improving her pronunciation instead of online shopping. I don’t want to be called ‘Missa Halms’ again if possible.”

 

Arg! Publishers. Is there any of them who does not whine? I can’t even have peace here, in the middle of nowhere. 

There is a strong wind outside. I can’t go to the forest in such weather. I have things to do anyway. If I could focus a bit. If I can stop thinking about -- 

A pair of brown eyes invaded my consciousness. It is the first thing come to my mind as soon as I close my eyes. And if I am lucky enough to sleep a couple of hours, I find myself thinking about it next morning. 

First I blamed it to sleep but it doesn’t matter day or night anymore. In the kitchen or sitting on the couch or in the middle of an experiment; as I write, eat, wash or do whatever I do that exact moment; I catch myself lost in the same thoughts.

_Each movement of tail. Each inhale. The rises and falls of bright fur with each breath._

_The sound he made when I walk to him._

_The straight up posture. The challenging gaze._

 

When I figure that I can’t focus on anything other than this strange encounter, I totally give up trying. In the last three days, I have unreeled this scene in my mind dozen times a day. Each time I pause it on a different moment and analyze every little detail. _His_ every little detail.

 

_His height, muscles on his legs, angle of his ears, bow of his head, colour of his eyes._

 

Sometimes I speculate about his features, like measures of his torso or canines. Or how his fur would feel like when touched. What would he do if touch it? Would he attack me, would he howl, would he pierce my flesh?.. 

I am aware of his strength. His imposing body gives not much to doubt. If he had wished me dead I would not have been here. I didn’t even notice him till he decided to be seen. He surely knew my presence prior to get close. Probably even smelt me. Still he approached so slowly, quietly. Like- approaching his prey. 

And that confuses me even more. 

He saw me. He watched me. He was cautious but didn’t attack me even though I tried to get close. As if he was experiencing the same curiosity about me while I was trying to get clues about him. As ridiculous as it sounds, his actions were even civil, given he is a predator. 

That’s why I am so angry at myself! If I had taken a little risk, I wouldn’t have struggled with these thoughts now. Maybe he was a huge wolf, maybe not. But if I had touched him, I would have at least be sure that he really existed. I know that I didn’t have a dream or hallucination. I know what I saw. But I don’t have a logical explanation about it and it kills me. 

After the incident, I walked around in the forest hoping to see him again. Each time I knew my efforts were in vain. If he does not wish me to see him, I can’t. But this fact does not comfort me.

 

Oh shit! It is four thirty. I’ve already wasted twenty minutes with the same madness. I am ceasing it now. I must do something. Anything. 

Why is it so cold? I take a look at the window. It is impossible to have a clear view from dust cloud. I hear the roaring of the wind in the house. It is no good. 

I turn on TV. The voice of the irritating woman from channel8 fills the room:

 

“ …advise to not go outside except emergencies. It will keep raining for the next two days. The dust cloud has blurred drivers’ vision badly, some minor accidents are reported. And it is announced that 55. highway is temporarily closed to traffic..”

 

Damn it! I was going to go to town tomorrow. I should use Molly’s lab. If I do not check the experiment on time, I will have to repeat the fermentation process. Even if the main road is open to traffic there will be mud everywhere. I can’t even get --

  

What is that noise?

 

  

I turn TV off and come near the window. Can see nothing except dust and flying leafs. The wind must have crashed something to the wall. Everywhere will be a mess tomorrow.

 

The same rattle. Coming from the porch. I should probably check it. But I don’t want all the dust to come inside. 

Then I heard the knock on the door.

 

A thud.

 

And another knock with more force. 

 

In seconds, I consider all the possibilities about who my uninvited guest would be. And disproof all of them one by one. 

 

I turn the door handle.

 

And find myself lying on the floor.

 

Over me there is a head clutched on my stomach.

 

I shake off my dizziness. Straighten a bit to try to see where this head connects to.

 

 

 

Oh…

 

 

 

It is connected to – 

\-- a male body.

 

 

A very naked one.

 


	3. Surprise Me In My Own Game

* * *

 

So here I am. With the blond mystery lying on the floor.

 

He is injured on his right shoulder. Probably a deep cut though I can not be certain from where I stand. The blood pouring from the wound contrasts to his pale skin. It’s been a few minutes since he came- or threw himself on me. And there is a mini blood pool on the floor, next to his body. If he wasn’t lying on his back, the red lines which begin from the wounded shoulder would go down through his chest and merge on navel then flow down to –

 

Okay.

 

He is still unconscious. Maybe I should shake him up.

 

How did he get here? He couldn’t have walked here from the main road. He is bleeding, he could have found help easily there rather than taking the road here. If he came by car where is it? Was it broken? But why did he take this road? There is no one lives here, except me. Came from the forest? No, he did not. If that was the case, he wouldn’t have found the house in such weather. The lights are off and he can not see it from trees. Maybe he had seen it before. Maybe he is a hunter who knows the area well enough to find the cottage.

 

He was clearly attacked. It doesn’t look like stab wound. And why is he naked anyway?

 

He is shorter than me. His small body is quite fit. There are lean muscles on his biceps. And the ones on his chest show themselves with each breath. With his light sandy hair and rounded face, he looks average. The faint wrinkles near his eyes and mouth say he is over thirty five. But his thin lips and up tilted nose make him look—younger? I guess his eyes are going to say the last words about his looks. Given his eyeballs, I am expecting a depth in stare.

 

 

He seems so—peaceful now.

 

A pinkish scar on his left shoulder draws my attention. It is rounded, like a bullet wound. The covering skin is smooth and thin in center, but rough and in layers on edges. I’d like to rub my fingertips over it to explore the texture.

 

I kneel down beside him.

 

The blood has spread out on the floor. I must do something. Yes, first aid. Will he need stitches? What wound is it?

 

His body and bullet scar tell me he is a cup. But there are other possibilities, like soldier, hunter, even lumberman. It would be way easier, if he had been clothed. Who are you?

 

 

Shit!

 

 

He is awake. He is looking into my eyes.

 

 

Yeah. I was right. His gaze is deep. It has a strong pulling effect. What is this colour? Dark blue? Interesting. I would swear it’s being brown just a second before. There must be a name for this colour. I should test it under various kinds of lights, see if it would turn into something entirely different. It tempts me to look longer. Closer.

Strange colour.

 

“Strange ”

 

I startled.

 

“What?”

 

“Um.. nothing.” He looks at his surroundings, straightening a bit.

 

“So. Are you going to do something?” His voice is melodic.

 

“Like?”

 

“I donno. Maybe give some privacy?” He stretches his head forward indicating his nudity.

 

Really, Sherlock? There is a naked stranger in your dining room and you are hovering above him. It doesn’t help to ‘freak’ claims. Wait, why do I care? He is the one who literally rolled into my house naked as a David. Yeah, a rather short one! I bet it is not so healthy either.

 

I take the blanket from the couch and drop it onto the lower part of his body.

 

“If I were you my priority would not be my privacy.” I tilt my head to his still bleeding shoulder.

 

“Well. I think I will survive.”

 

“If you say so. But I must inform you that I can’t bring you to the hospital. Storm is so strong the main road is blocked.”

 

“Which makes your sudden presence a bit strange, by the way.” I fold my arms in front of my chest, narrowing my eyes. It is efficient to put people under pressure and make them talk.

 

Or it was.

 

He stands up slowly and checks his wound ignoring me. He is not wavering on the foot though his hands trembles slightly. His face looks paler now.

 

Oh God! It is so inconvenient. I can not nurse anyone. It is against my nature!

 

“Er. Can I use the loo?”

 

“That way.” I point at the door on his left.

 

“And.. medical kit would be nice. You have one?”

 

“Surprisingly yes. I will find it.”

 

“Ok. Thank you.”

 

When he reaches the loo, he stops in the doorway and turns to me. He is hesitant.

 

“If…if you say something when I am inside. I.. might not respond you. So--”

 

“I don’t intend to socialize with you, especially while you use the loo. What would be that urgent?”

 

He rubs his temple.

 

“I don’t know. That if I need anything? If I am ok? Or -- what I am doing here? Who I am?”

 

“For latter, I don’t actually need to ask you. I will eventually find that out.”

He raises his eyebrows. Although I sense he is curious, he does not comment on it.

 

“And about your well being. Well, you said yourself that you will survive. So why bother?”

 

“In fact, the alternative would be much more interesting.” I go on, pacing in the room.

 

“A total stranger dying in my home. He comes in the middle of a storm, apparently from nowhere. Naked. No clothes, no wallet, no ID…No trace to follow. Just a body to deduce from.”

 

I am a bit lost in my little fantasy but the possibilities are so thrilling that I feel the adrenalin rushing to my veins with this plain thought. I twine my fingers under my chin, bounce on my toes.

 

“It would be Christmas!”

 

When I glance at him, his tired eyes and brows look stiff. But his mouth curles up from corners vaguely. I have never seen such strange expression on anyone. He seems as if he doesn’t know what to do with his face.

 

“Well.. Sorry to disappoint you?” He comes to a decision. A small smile has spread. Extraordinary. The average reaction at this point would be- well, not very nice. I play along.

 

“Hm. Not good?”

 

“Yup. A bit not”

He is still smiling when he closes the door.

 

For a long time I have paced between the room and kitchen aimlessly. I spot the blood on the floor. It reminds me the med kit. I get it from the closet and put it on the couch.

 

Good. Wonderful.

 

Finally a puzzle to solve. In this circumstances, in this weather, I wouldn’t find a better thing to do. I can not write a single word for days. I can not do anything other than thinking about that—creature.

 

It will be good for me.

 

I startle by the sound coming from bathroom. A low pitched sound. For a moment I imagine the laundry basket banging into the wall. What is he doing there? He fainted?

 

He asked me to not talk to him until he comes out. But he seemed hesitant, as it was weird to ask. He was expecting further interrogation about it. Why?

He may not hear what I say from water splashing or he may be too exhausted to respond given his condition. These are hardly unacceptable. But he did not say so.

 

He makes no sound. What is he doing there, if not looking in the mirror? Oh, he finally turns on the tap. Maybe he was unconscious and has just collected himself. I do not care. Aside from his mystery, I can not kick him out in this storm. It is enough him to make a reasonable conversation with me. He is a tolerable companion, I guess.

 

It nearly gets dark. He can sleep upstairs. Or on the couch? I can observe him all night. No. It is not necessary, he will be staying here enough to solve him. I have to give him some clothes. It is not practical him walking around wrapped in a blanket. Moreover it is-- distracting.

 

There is no sound coming from loo anymore. He will soon get out of there. I must look ridiculous, standing in the middle of the room. Think of something to do!

 

I run to the bookshelf. Get a book about chemistry? And jump onto the armchair next the couch, which is then the door opened. I turn my head up to look at his way nonchalantly. And ---

 

I can not take my eyes of him.

 

His bleeding has stopped. Completely! There are just two subtle lines on the wounded shoulder which was a pool of blood a just few minutes ago. Two parallel red lines.

His hands are steady now. He is wrapped securely by blanket below from waist. His torso is slightly wet. A few water drops glimmer in dim light. When our eyes meet, he smiles tightly. After he takes a look at the book on my lap, he turned his head to the room, then to the med kit.

 

“May I?”

He points to the light switch.

 

“Of course” Stupid. Stupid! You are supposed to read!

 

He sits on the couch, starting to work on his wound. His hands work quickly, without much thought. He disinfects, then bandages the area with certain movements. It is not the first time he treats himself. He is used to it. Oh!

 

I no longer pretend reading. As I watch him with open curiousity, he closes the kit.

 

“Well. Thank you so much.”

 

“I did nothing.”

 

“You let me use loo and your medical equipments. You..let me in your house.”

 

“You did not leave much to choose there.”

 

He shifts his head back smiling. I feel a strong dejavu with this mere act.

 

“Yes I did not. But you didn’t seem reluctant either. You did not panic or try to get rid of me. Like a normal person would.” He purses his lips after the last sentence.

 

“Normal is boring.” His smile reaches his eyes. I go on.

 

“And you were naked, wounded, without gun. You were- you are not dangerous.” A vaguely sly expression comes to his eyes. As if he knows something that I don’t, and laughes me inwardly.

 

“I beg to differ but you are not much self-preserved anyway, are you?”

 

Our gaze is interrupted with a thunder.

 

“I guess I will have to trouble you for a little while. Er, sorry by the way.”

 

“Not at all. There is a spare bedroom upstairs. You can sleep there if you want. There must be some clothes in the drawers as well. Pick whatever you want.”

 

He seems a bit uncomfortable. I am not the perfect host, so the sooner he gets the idea the easier his stay will be for me.

 

“Kitchen is right there, although I can’t say there is much in the fridge. I do not eat unless I have to.”

 

“I am not so hungry but thanks. But I would like to have tea, if it is ok.”

 

“Of course. Help yourself. Just stay away from my desk and notes.” After a second pause I add. “And do not bother with small talk.”

 

“If you say so.” He is looking at blood spots on the floor when he stands up and disappears on the corner.

 

 

* * *

 

I have been killing time on my desk since the stranger -why did I not ask his name?- left. There is a book about natural poisons in my hand. I both read the book and give an ear to the sounds in the house. I can still hear the howl of the wind but there are other sounds as well.

It began with footsteps on the stairs and light creaks on the floor. Then I’ve heard some movements on bathroom, some thudding, water boiling in the kettle. And again light footsteps. He is not noisy but not hesitant in his movements either.

 

I have not shared my living area with anybody since I left home for university. It would normally be distracting anyone hanging around the room but I rather find it— comforting. I can put up with his presence at least.

 

I do not know how much time has passed. I have just come to the part about the broad leaved ivies grow in rain forests when I smell a strong scent. Turning on my chair, I see a cup of tea on the desk.

 

There he is. Sitting on the couch, sipping his tea. He wears a thick blue jumper (mind palace: data not found or deleted. It must be a gift from Aunt Mary. Poor taste as usual). He also wears grey pajama bottoms which slightly touch to the floor though he is sitting. Overall he looks so … domestic.

 

The man I am looking at is someone who goes to work early in morning, comes home with shopping bags, settles on an armchair with his tea to watch bad telly or drinks bear with his colleagues in the nearest pub. This man has a neat house, bills he always pays in time, some neighbours and maybe a lover –nope, not married, no ring. He is quite urban, quite polite. He thanks too much and if anyone bumps into him on street he himself would be the first to apologize.

 

The man I am looking at is so ordinary that the most unexpected thing he would do is getting mad from his dull life miraculously and killing one of his neighbours who is also a model citizen like himself. And in that case, who can even blame him?

 

No action. No mystery. So dull.

 

And yet, here he is, sitting on my couch. Far away from London. He came from apparently nowhere; naked and bleeding.

 

A perfect paradox. Just perfect!

 

“I hope you are comfortable.”

 

He turns his gaze from the window to me. After a moment of blinking, he lifts his brows.

 

“Really? What happened to ‘no small talk’?” His attention is noteworthy.

 

“By the way, I might have created a tiny mess in the closet. It was so bloody difficult to find something that isn’t silk.”

He tugs the hem of his jumper.

“Or cashmere.” His tone is mocking. I can not say I am bored so I allow myself for a small smile.

 

“Well. I think some of us have taste in clothes. Of course, if we exclude the jumper you are wearing.”

 

“A disappointing gift ha?”

 

“Not disappointing really. I do not hold my expectations high for Aunt Mary. The last thing she gave me was a hat, which I have no idea how to wear. A deerstalker with ears!” I roll my eyes.

 

His smile grows. How bigger can it get?

 

“Though I must admit it serves to its purpose. My theory is: when deers see you wearing that hideous thing they must be so shocked at human kind’s poor taste, which then let you come home with fresh meat.”

 

He throws his head back when he laughs. He is smiling with his eyes, with his whole face. I would say warmly if not know how ridiculous it sounds.

 

“I can understand it. Once mum bought me a disgusting neon parka for my birthday. The next day, I was laughing stock of the whole school. It was a terrible day. And when I was coming home in the evening, its colour was so distracting in dark that caused a neighbour to crash his car to the container.”

 

“Hm. Lucky for me, I got rid of Aunt Mary. She moved to France.”

 

“No danger for me either. I lost mum a couple years ago.”

 

He’s made a thing with his mouth, curling his lips tightly on the corner, which I interpret he regrets talking about it. His face is so expressive. I can not stop wondering how he will react to my observations. Should I begin now?

 

“When you were Afghanistan, I assume.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I mean your mother. She died when you were in Afghanistan.”

There is no trace from the expression he had just now. His lips are parted, blinking rapidly. He shifted uncomfortably. Then put the cup on the coffee table.

 

“What.. how do you know about Afghanistan?”

 

I stand up from the chair and walk to the fireplace.

 

“I deduce it from your body.”

 

“My body?”

 

“Yes. And not only that. I also know that you are an ex-army doctor. You were discharged due to the wound on your left shoulder. And you live alone.”

He jumps on his feet with my last sentence, fisting his hands at his sides. He is clearly angry though I am not sure at whom.

 

“How?”

 

“Easy. You have a gunshot wound on your left shoulder and calluses on your right hand from holding a heavy gun for a long time. You might have been a cop but your hair cut screams army. Also cops use lighter weapons so their marks are slightly different than yours. So army. But where?

 

Your hands and neck tanned, while the other parts of your body paler. You were wearing long sleeves –your uniform- under sunlight for a while. So not here, abroad. And most probably Afghanistan. But skin is not so dark, and your hair is slightly longer for a soldier on duty. Then, ex-army. It must be the wound on your shoulder caused you to be discharged.”

 

The hands are no longer clenched but he is still uptight. The stern look starts to fade, instead another emotion settles in his eyes. Wonder?

 

“When you were bleeding you did not demand medical help. You were sure about your condition, about what you need. Your hands were steady treating the wound, you were moving without a second thought. As if it was a daily task. I know you are a soldier. Then army doctor.”

 

“You are so calm since you came. You haven’t called anyone to inform that you will be staying outside. No ring, not enough time to have serious relationship after discharge. So you live alone.”

 

“You do not live near here. You do not work in the town. It is nearly impossible you finding this house in the storm. But here you are, next to me, listening to my deductions with a sheepish expression. The question is…how?

 

Chain has broken. He wakes up from his hypnotic state. He closes his parted lips and looks around as if seeking for help.

 

Oh, so typical! I know exactly what he will do in seconds. No surprise there. Never. I have experienced it, what, a hundred times? In a minute, there will be no trace of calm demeanour he was showing. He is going to scowl. He is going to start his long speech about how odd or rude I am; and maybe both. About who I do think myself. And how I dare—

 

“It’s… Er, it is amazing.”

 

\----

 

“I mean.. you really get all this information just by looking?”

 

“Yes. It is obvious actually.”

 

“Not to me. No”

 

“I don’t think we introduced each other. I am Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Well. You said yourself that you don’t need it, that you will figure out eventually. And apparently you were right. Hell, you know everything about me.”

 

“Hardly. I don’t know your name. And the others can be deduced by anyone. Well, anyone who has healthy eyes and an average IQ.”

 

“So you are actually saying there is nothing extraordinary about what you have just done?”

 

“I know it is extraordinary. And I definitely know that my genius speeds things up. What I am saying is anyone can find those out if focus enough.”

 

“Really? I would like to try it then. May I try it?”

 

“What? Deducing me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

He’s passed through the coffee table and stopped a few feet away from me. He watches me from head to toe, narrowing his eyes. Despite his intense stare, I can not take him serious with his ugly jumper and pants sweeping the floor. He reminds me a child with a lens playing detective. I can not stop myself meeting his eyes and lifting a brow defiantly.

 

“You live alone. Everything in the house is for a single person. One toothbrush, one towel... There is no new massage on voicemail. And you haven’t spoken to anyone so far…You don’t have many friends. Otherwise they would worry about you, given the weather.”

 

 

“You are rich. Or your family is rich. I am not sure. But probably the second one. You look a bit skinny, even delicate. Your work doesn’t require body force. You live far from the town.” He tilts his head to the desk. “But you have laptop and internet connection. And you were at home during working hours. So either you are unemployed or you work home office.”

 

He is pacing in front of me, brows furrowed.

 

“The bottles on the kitchen table, they look like an experiment. You live near the forest and read books about chemistry. I would say that you are- a scientist.”

 

Okay. Not bad, at least above average. I don’t know what I was waiting but… Anyway, he managed to keep my attention for a while. I must admit that his mere attempt to deduce me is all together noteworthy. Surely he is not extraordinary. Well. There will be no puzzle anymore when he tells me how he got here. Then he will be dull again and I won’t have anything to do in this damned--

 

“But you are not.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You are not a scientist”

 

\---

 

“There is neither enough equipment in the house for an extensive research, nor a scientific facility near here. And you are too active to just sit there and make experiments. So. Chemistry is a hobby. Or… you use it in your main work.” It is weird to watch his thinking process. Do I look like him as I tell my observations? I can nearly hear the wheels turning in his head. His face lightens like he recalls something crucial. Bright eyes widen. Mouth curves from corners.

 

“You like danger. You don’t react to it as a sane person would do. A naked man fainting on you does not terrify you. It even thrills you. You like to know everything. You hate getting bored. You want to solve puzzles. Yes. You look for them. When you solve one you seek for another. But there is nothing interesting in this place. So what are you doing?”

 

He said  _puzzle_.

 

Why did he say that? Even my brother can not use this exact word. Why the hell am I holding my breath? Is it how people feel when they listen to my observations?

 

“You like mystery, you work at home, you are interested in chemistry. But there is another thing. Another...”

 

It is clear that he comes to a decision. He stands two feet away from me. I am not sure if I can hide my excitement anymore. I blatantly wait his next move. In the light of the fireplace, his eyes turn to brown again. He is pointing something with his head. What?

 

Oh, his hand. He lifted it to me.

 

“May I?”

 

I have no idea what he is referring to. But I must have nodded because he is wrapping his fingers lightly on my wrist. He has just come near the heat but his skin is warmer than mine. He lifts my hand towards his face and turns his head to my palm, not tearing his eyes from mine. He is- smelling?

 

His face is not even touching to my hand but I can not help fisting it. Then he sweeps his fingers from my wrist to my hand and starts to unclench it slowly. One by one, opening each finger. His fingers are shorter than mine. His touch is soft though decisive. I do not resist him. But when he touches his nose to the center of my palm…

 

 

Shit.

 

 

His nose barely brushes my hand back and forth. But with each movement I feel hot breath crashing to my skin in waves. The heat spreads from my hand to my whole body as if his breath passes through my pores to my veins. And it is so tantalizing that I hate every little blank second between each exhale to death because they break me off this new found heat.

 

And. Suddenly It is so hard to stand upright. It is so hard to pretend everything is alright cause it is not.

 

A lot of things happen at the same time, a lot of things which make no sense. My heartbeat accelerates. My hands sweat. My whole body tickles. And I have lost all train of thoughts about what I am doing, why I am doing,  _ **what he is trying to do to me**._

 

I feel... as if I am perishing with each blow.

 

“You are an author.”

 

Hm? I open my eyes. He is smiling.

 

 

“And I am John Watson.”

 


	4. Pull Me High But Don't Drop Me Midway Ok?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Hi there people, readers, passers-by! 
> 
> Wow, it is so weird to write here as if I am talking to myself! But you are there, right? Reading and leaving kudos. So I wanted to thank all of you who check out this fiction. And some special thanks to LockAndLoad who leave the first comment!
> 
> It's the first thing I manned up enough to write, let alone upload to a site. So comments and suggestions are welcome.
> 
> PS: This fic is not betad so there must be some grammatical or content errors. I don't really want it to turn into a weekly torment for me so maybe bear with me?
> 
> PS: There is a part about Doctor Who in this chapter ( yeah, cliche for a Sherlock fiction but I couldn't stop myself). Needless to say I am not sharing Sherlock's thoughts about the show.

  


* * *

  


  


John.

John Watson. It’s his name. My perfect puzzle.

 

For the last twenty four hours, I experience a long forgotten emotion, ‘joy’ I guess. I feel ecstatic to my cells. And it is impossible, even for an instant, to stop, think and calm myself. I terribly wish to go outside to shout at the top of my lungs: “Did you see? Did you see that brilliant thing in my house?!”. And he came to me of his own accord.

 

If not see the object of my joy hanging around in the room, I would truly doubt my brain health from the reactions I am giving. As if I am high or, in this case, pulling up by a John bubble. I don’t remember the last time that I feel so alive. Ah, yes! The serial killer last year. The one who wrote some coded messages on the skulls of the victims, shaving their heads. It was a wonderful week passed between the city library and SY. Then I figured that the murderer was a university student who copied the events from a manga, a young girl actually! Since then there have been no time that my brain feels so alive. Which is definitely saying something.

 

John!

 

John Watson who had nightmares all night but put a tea and toast in front of me with smiling eyes. Who wears his ugly jumper upright as if a uniform and whose footsteps in my house don’t drive me mad, astonishingly. John Watson who draws me to the kitchen with the smell of the meal he cooks, which by the way I do not have a clue from where he finds all these supplies.

 

He is not noisy or boring like other people. His reaction to my observations is far from being ordinary. He is not laughing at me but with me. I don’t have to put up with him when we talk. Our conversations flow naturally. Like a knife smearing butter easily on a slice of bread. God, I just made a metaphor about kitchen! It must be his side effect.

 

When he was sleeping, fighting nightmares, I researched him on the internet. He has a blog in the name of John H. Watson. I must ask him about ‘H’. Harry? Harold? His entries are quite short and depressed. The last one is: “Nothing happens to me”. He misses the danger. He is bored so much. Like me.

 

His stupid therapist thinks it is because of the war, his depression. She doesn’t know him even a little, doesn’t know that his true enemy is this secured urban life.

 

Under his army posture, there are dozens versions of John which show themselves for the last few hours. The ridiculous attention he pays to cooking, the disapproving doctor look he gives me after hearing my eating routine, the amused expression when I make deductions about the people in the TV show he watches… When I found out how much fun he got from this, I could not help but deduce all the characters in the show. His short, clean laughs filled the room. They remind me of _crystals_ , odd I know. After watering from the laugh, his eyes got bluer. _Brighter_.

 

I still can not believe he said those words last night. His observations made me pace in the living room all night. There is no one who could describe me like that, let alone a total stranger. If not his childlike expression when he realized I was a writer as he guessed, if his voice had not sounded two octave shocked saying “Really? I can’t believe I got that right!”, I would have thought that someone send him to tease me.

 

 

But he is _real_. The most real thing I lay my eyes upon after a long time. And I want that reality _with me_.

 

 

He is clever enough, a skilled doctor. He would be a great assistant to me. I can make use of his medical knowledge in my stories. Furthermore he is an ex-soldier, he does not fear of the danger. We can search for interesting cases together.

 

I can imagine us chasing criminals in the alleys of London, coming home breathless to Baker Street. John’s efforts to create a place for himself on the chaos of the kitchen table or his nagging me about my eating habits with Mrs. Hudson. I can even picture the look on Mycroft when he meets John. Surely, John will detest him as much as I do. It will be so fun!

 

“You don’t go to the town often?” I pull away from my thoughts by his voice. While I fool around the bottles, he is washing the dishes his back turned to me.

 

“Just when I have to.”

 

“Don’t you have- any friends there? Some places you hang out?

 

“Really John, if you had been there once, you would not have asked me any of these.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because those people are dreadfully stupid. I must first loose more than half of my brain cells to have a satisfying conversation with any of them. Which is not obviously something I wish.”

 

He snorts, half turning to me with his hands still in the sink.

 

“Oh, come on! Aren’t you exaggerating a bit?”

 

“No, I am not.”

 

“But you are chatting with me since this morning. And- assuming you are not bored, how bad would it be with the ones in the town?”

 

“Yes, but I can assure you that you are no like towners at all. Don’t you think you are underestimating your intellect much?”

 

We stare at each other for a few seconds as he purses his lips.

 

“Anyway. You said you have never been in town before. You came camping in the forest, right? But we didn’t talk about what exactly happened there.”

 

He turns his back to me again. It is obvious he doesn’t want me to see his expression, he doesn’t want to respond either.

 

“Yes. I thought that fresh air was a good idea. Er-- a friend mentioned this area and I came with a backpack. But I forgot to check the weather beforehand, stupid of me actually.”

 

“And?”

 

“And.. I donno. Everything is a bit blur. I was.. attacked I guess.”

 

The muscles on his neck and shoulders flex slightly. His moving hands are now stable in the sink.

 

“By whom?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Who attacked you? And what would they get from you anyway? A camper can not have much cash with him or another thing that is worth the effort. Of course, if we are not talking about sexual assault.”

 

“WHAT? No! Not like that.”

 

“Then how?”

 

“Actually, he came from the back. I couldn’t see clearly. I am not even sure if he was… human. It was probably- an animal.”

 

It is obvious he is lying but I am not sure if entirely or between lines. He was totally naked when he came here. Why would an animal need--

 

 

Animal!

 

 

“What animal?” I rise from my chair instantly and walk to where he stands. He draws out his wet hands from the sink, half turning to me.

 

“It.. was really foggy you know and--”

 

“John! What animal?” I grip him from his shoulders.

 

“I.. don’t know.”

 

Come on! Think, think, think! You have to remember. If you saw what I saw…

 

“John, you can remember. Human memory is more accurate than you can ever imagine. It records every visual experience, even the ones you don’t think you recall. Now. Close your eyes. Imagine yourself in the forest.”

 

“What? What the hell?”

 

He is gaping at me. I tighten my grip on his shoulders and begin turning him around. It might have a hypnotic effect on him.

 

“I said close your eyes. You have to remember what you saw, John. What kind of animal? Was it big? What about its fur? What colour?”

 

He looks confused. Why doesn’t he close his damned eyes?

 

“John! Animal. What did it look like? The thing that attacked you… it looked like a wolf?”

 

THERE.

 

It passed in his eyes in less than half a second but I’ve caught it. He knows something. He should! He stops me holding my forearms with his wet hands.

 

“Sherlock, stop it. I don’t know. It was getting dark and I was scared. I run away immediately.”

 

“Then why were you naked?”

 

“I… was changing my clothes. I sank in a waterhole on my way there… I was soaking wet. I was just pulling my spare clothes from my backpack. It must have come in that exact minute.”

 

Why are you lying, John? You are not even a good liar. I must train you.

 

I leave the kitchen after nodding shortly. Did he see the same creature I saw? That’s why he is lying? Maybe he thinks that I will not believe him. I must think about it.

 

Yes. Mind palace.

 

 

* * *

**  
**

Hours passed when I sit on my armchair, walking room to room in mind palace. John was a needed distraction after the encounter with that strange animal. But when he mentioned his attacker my mind was pulled to the same creature again.

 

Why would he attack to John, assuming he is telling the truth? I can not see a reason for the animal to harm him. I took a lot more risk than John, but no harm done.

 

After torturing myself with the same thoughts, I’ve come and sit on the couch beside John. He’s tucked his legs under himself, leaning other side of the couch. His elbow is on the armrest, his head resting in the palm.

 

He is watching a weird TV show about time travel. I don’t know if the show aims to be absurd but it succeeds it anyhow. There is a man operating a so-called time machine, which is blatantly a studio décor by the way, with dramatic moves. This man who calls himself Doctor is telling other people about mechanism of the time in a quite knowing manner. And the man has nearly no eyebrows!

 

I could not bare the ridiculousness of the show after five minutes and shared my observations with John. He must be really enjoying the show because he defended it fervently for a while. Then he’s totally given up after listening patiently my speech on parallel times and time loops. He turns his eyes to me and changes the subject probably just to shut me up.

 

“So. You are a writer ha? What kind of stories do you write?”

 

“Novels actually. Thrillers.”

 

A smile spreads on his face. His cheeks get sharper with the push of his grin.

 

“Really? Wow! Like Richard Brook?”

 

He must be bloody kidding!

 

“Yes, we can say that. You know him?”

 

“Of course. I mean, is it even possible anyone like the genre but not know him? I don’t think so. That man is bloody amazing.”

 

I purse my lips, keeping a serious expression.

 

“You think so?”

 

“Yes. Don’t you? I know, he has some weird stuff too but overall I think he is great.”

 

“What ‘weird stuff’ you might be referring to?”

 

“Well… Sometimes his writing is a bit… technical and boring? I mean, he mentions 243 types of tobacco ashes for pages! And ... he says he can identify an airline pilot from, what, his thumb?”

 

“You think it is impossible?”

 

“Maybe… Maybe not. I don’t know. The point is, I don’t think readers are interested in this stuff. He sometimes makes his characters speak like university professors. Nobody likes reading lecture for pages.”

 

Oh, everybody is a critic!

 

“So you are saying thrillers should be easy reading ha? They shouldn’t challenge the readers intellectually?”

 

“No. Not at all. But maybe he can shorten the lecture part. And- work on his characters.”

 

“What about them?”

 

“Em… don’t you think some of them are a bit- exaggerated or caricaturized? The one in his last novel for instance. I mean.. nobody likes someone who orders other people constantly and then tells every little ugly detail about their lives to their faces. There are no such people in real life, right?... What do you say?”

 

“I…

 

I think…

 

I am going to- have a shower.”

 

When I rise from the couch I don’t take a glance at his side, though I can feel his eyes on me till I close the bathroom door.

 

My ears are tingling. I- I feel suffocated. Shower. Yes, it is not a bad idea.

 

I get rid of my clothes and stand in the bath tub in a record time. Hot water is paralyzing my other senses. But the same sentence echoes in my mind without cease. In a soft voice. Which ironically contrasts to the tough meaning:

 

_Nobody likes someone who orders other people constantly and then tells every little ugly detail about their lives to their faces._

 

_Nobody likes._

_Nobody likes._

_Nobody likes someone._

_Like **you**._

 

Again and again. With John’s crystal voice. With his smiling face. As if he is declaring an obvious truth. So serene.

 

Minutes passed. Hours maybe. And I am more tired then I first came here, as I turn off the tap and wear my robe.

 

I inhale and take a step out of the bathroom. And I noticed a few things at the same time. TV is off. There is a voicemail on the home phone. And John is standing a few feet away from me, staring at me strangely.

 

“You must be fucking kidding me!”

 

I quirk an eyebrow. What now?

 

 

“Why didn’t you say you were Richard bloody Brook?”

 

 

Oh.  


	5. Shine In My Life, Make The Sunshine Envious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Sorry for the long wait. I was a bit busy with other stuff. But I'm determined to see the end of this fiction. So here it is, a new chapter!
> 
> Again, comments are really appreciated. Thanks all of you who read and enyoy this fic.

* * *

“John. Stop it. I know you’re laughing.”

 

“What? No. What’s there to laugh at?”

 

“Precisely. There is hardly anything funny in that medical journal you’re reading. Which makes your laugh quite irritating.”

 

“You are not even looking at my side. How can you be so sure I am laughing?”

 

“As if your lifting the magazine now and then doesn’t tell much.”

 

“Anyway. I am sure we can find lots of funny stuff in this journal. Such as… Well, the article about the effects of flatus on intestines. It’s pretty hilarious.”

 

“John.”

 

“Really. I think you should take a look at it too. And… there is another one about… kidney damages due to excessive analgesics. I am sure you would find it-”

 

“John!”

 

“Okay. Okay, I am giving up.” He begins chuckling, raising his hands as surrendering.

 

“But who would say that the famous Richard Brook, the best seller author, doesn’t know the prime minister?”

 

“Oh. That again!”

 

“Or the fact that Earth revolves around the Sun. I mean, they teach it in elementary school for Christ sake!”

 

“As I said last night, these are just rubbish. I must have deleted them at some point.”

 

“But it’s the solar system!”

 

“So what? What does it matter who revolves around whom, if they are not crashing into each other and life goes on?!”

 

“Oh God!.. What about the other stuff?

 

“Define it.”

 

“The current affairs, trendy topics. Dunno. Hit movies, TV shows, songs. Lady Gaga?”

 

“Hm. Modern music sucks. The others as well. And… what kind of name is ‘Gaga’ by the way? Is it Turkish?”

 

“Football? Chelsea?”

 

“Waste of time”

 

_He is teasing me._

 

“Elections, parliament? The Queen?”

 

“Boring.”

 

_He’s changed his trousers._

 

“World cup, Olympics, Oscars?”

 

“For idle minds.”

 

_He is going out._

“Mother’s day, Valentine’s day? Oh God, have you ever heard about Christmas?”

 

“Unfortunately it doesn’t even work to delete them. The universe becomes unbearable those days. But again unnecessary.”

 

_His face is like an opened book._

“Earthquakes, natural disasters, wars… You wouldn’t know if a war started, would you?”

 

“On the contrary, it’s already covered. I’m pretty sure I would know it way before than you. Mycroft is very obvious about that.”

 

_Today his eyes are…yeah, definitely blue._

“Mycroft?”

 

“The one who can alone drag England into a war. He defines himself as my brother.”

 

“Um.. Your brother works at the government?”

 

“ _He_ is the government. Anyway, let’s not talk about him anymore. He has an unpleasant characteristic as to appear abruptly when his name mentioned.”

 

“You don’t seem very fond of him, huh?”

 

“Fond? I can not imagine anyone using this word in the same sentence with his name. Including Mummy. Mycroft…can be tolerated at best.”

 

“Ouch! Isn’t it a bit harsh?”

 

“No, it’s not. You’ll understand when you meet him.”

 

“Er. Why would I meet him?”

 

“I hope you won’t. It’d be a misfortune I don’t wish for anybody.”

 

“Does he know who you are? I mean your pen name.”

 

“Yes. He considers it a kind of brotherly duty to know every little detail about my life.”

 

“Who else knows? That you are Richard Brook.”

 

“Not a long list. My publisher. And now, you.”

 

“What? So you are saying I am the only one, apart from your brother.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

He tilts his head rubbing his temple.

 

“Sorry again by the way. I really really didn’t mean to evesdrop.”

 

“It’s hardly your fault John. Lestrade’s message did not leave much to imagination.”

 

It should have been more frustrating to be exposed to John so suddenly. But he’ll know my author identity at some point if he becomes my assistant. Lestrade’s phone message just fastened the process. And increased my devotion to keep John with me.

 

It’s never been my default state to trust people easily. In suitable conditions- if tempted or persuaded enough or feel safe enough- anyone can reveal the most hidden secrets entrusted to themselves. Some people even gloat about it as if it’s a privilege to be shared in it, let alone to hide the secret. “You know Richard Brook? Yes, the author. I know his real name!”, “Yes, Richard Brook, thriller writer. No one knows him but guess what, I met the man!”.

 

I don’t believe that John would do that. He apologised several times last night for both listening to the message and criticizing my writing style. He was looking so funny stuttering with a flushed face, swearing constantly that he’d never tell anyone about it.

 

But it’s not because of those I choose to trust him.

 

From the moment he stepped into my house I knew that he adored moral values. Not sure about if it is his army discipline or a personality trait. He has a side that stubbornly pursues the honesty and a strong sense of justice which is supported by plenty of empathy. I wonder if he knows how much that makes his life harder.

 

He makes an impression of someone who gives his fights face to face. Someone who lowers his gun if his enemy’s back is to him.

 

I’d like to see him on duty. In the war. How his face twists as he ends a life? A man like him. A doctor whose primary mission is giving life. What a paradox it must be for him!

 

Are they those deaths he is seeing in his nightmares? The ghosts from the past called by his conscience?

 

 

He is standing beside the window. Is it a gun?

 

“You went to the forest.”

 

“Hm? Yes. I had to find my stuff. The gun is from the army, registered on my name.”

 

“You came to camping with your gun?”

 

“Well. You can’t know what you come across in a forest. As in my case.”

 

“When did you go there, at night?”

 

“Early morning… I am lucky. I also found my wallet and shoes. Um… the weather is nice today. So. I guess it’s my cue to return to London.”

 

“Why would you return to London?” I bristle in my seat.

 

“Because it’s my home?” He lifts his eyebrows.

 

“But why is the rush? You are currently unemployed. Do you have another reason to go?”

 

“Um…No…I guess.”

 

“So it’s settled. You’re staying for a few more days.”

 

“Uh.. I dunno. Haven’t I already bothered you enough?”

 

“Nonsense. We can hang around in the town. Or… you can help me on my writings.”

 

“Help you? Sherlock, I don’t know anything about literature.”

 

You are so predictable John. Always jumping into the trap.

 

“Didn’t you say my style is a bit like lecture? Maybe we’ll add some of your ‘current affairs’ here and there.”

 

“No. Um.. Sherlock, I love your writing. I adore your books. I really do. I’m so sorry about what I said earlier. Again. I don’t even know why I spoke like that. God, as if I am a bloody critic! But really…”

 

Good. He feels guilty. Another reason to stay here longer. Come on John!

 

“John. Are you staying or not?”

 

A big smile spreads his face.

 

“What’s the plan for the day?” 

 

* * *

I consider our trip to the town as a small victory. And the reason, well:

 

  1. We did shopping for the kitchen. There wasn’t anything edible, even coffee.
  2. I figured out that John likes jam to a point of weakness. Particularly cherry jam, the sour ones. He must not be very proud of his harmless obsession because he put the second bottle in the shopping basket when I turn my back.
  3. Nora, the irritating cashier, had a dumbstruck expression as she saw John with me. She probably wasn’t expecting a grumpy man like me having a kind friend, or any friend at all.
  4. John bought some clothes for himself. I want to believe that his poor taste is because of the lack of variety in the town.
  5. When Mrs. Plimmer’s son called me ‘freak’, John whispered something into his ear. I don’t have any idea what he said but the boy apologised to me his face flushing and nearly ran off.
  6. We stopped by the lab. Molly got a severed forefinger from the hospital. I’ll do experiments on it.
  7. I bought a book about insect species from the small bookstore.
  8. And John bought an old edition of A Scandal in Belgravia. He said he has another one at home but wanted my signature on it.
  9. I told him it’d be meaningless since I’d use my own signature and no one knew it. He said he doesn’t mind.
  10. “Amazing!” and “Brilliant!” filled my ears all day. John is so generous with his praises that I’m pretty sure, despite our short acquaintance, I’ve been appreciated by him about my intellect or skills more than I have been my whole life. I couldn’t help but ask him if he was aware that he was saying all those things out loud. Because, from my limited interactions with them, I know that people are far from appreciating anything that they don’t posses themselves and they’d rather ignore other’s good qualities or feel inferior by them. But John is not like that. Praises spill out of his mouth so naturally. Like they cost him nothing. How is he doing that?
  11. I made John laugh for 22 times in total.
  12. 8 of them were definitely crystal flavoured.
  13. I picked out 2 tones of brown and 5 tones of blond in John’s hair. And his hair shines like tiny gems under the light. I also got the strangest idea that maybe sunlight is more generous to him than all the other people. Is he absorbing the light?
  14. I caught myself smiling a few times without a reason. It’s a bit disconcerting. But general idea is that smiling is an indicator to feeling good, right?
  15. There is a possibility that John’s laugh is contagious. I must scan its effects on a broader test group.



 

Of course some minor annoying things also happened. Although they did not shadow the day, it’s only fair to mention them:

 

  1. When I was waiting for John in the parking lot I saw Jack and his imbecile friends. He still has a huge grudge against me for telling him about his wife’s divorce plans. Though he didn’t verbally assault me this time, he again tried to threaten me with his meaningless body language.
  2. I discovered that the boy who works at the cheese section masturbates regularly. Buying anything from there is out of question. Well, from today on at least!
  3. I was subjected to John’s disapproving glances for three times. I am going to call it ‘a bit not good look’ from now on. He gave each of them during my interaction with the cashier, Molly and Molly’s cousin.
  4. John cares my being kind to other people too much. I must lower his expectations about me. It’s impossible and tedious to be that patient with people.
  5. Molly’s cousin Brad- 36 years old, dark, bar manager, currently on vacation, definitely gay- hit on John as soon as they met. The form of his lips as he chatted with John was- disconcerting. It gave some scary clues about his imagination.
  6. John fervently refused all the small hints about us being a couple all day. Not that I wished him to do otherwise, but is it an army thing? He didn’t seem homophobic type to me.
  7. When the last time he corrected Molly saying “Oh. We are not like that.” I feel a bit annoyed.
  8. I got even more annoyed not finding why I was so annoyed.
  9. And.. yeah, I think John is not going to eat cheese-like products for a while. Maybe I shouldn’t have shared my deduction about the boy on the market. Pity. He was good at Italian cuisine.



 

Now we are on our way home. John is driving and I am listening to the music coming from the radio. Strangely I don’t have an urge to cover my ears. It’s an instrumental piece. Piano is dominant but there is some violin here and there, which strongly reminds me how I miss my violin.

 

It’s already dark outside. We are passing by the forest and I wonder if I’d find my way there in the dark. As if it is a huge black labyrinth swallows its visitors at night.

 

How weird a lack of light changing our perceptions on certain things so quickly. Surely it’s the same forest with the same trees, paths, animals, plants and waterholes. But again it feels different each time of day. It is a big harmless living system daytime, while turning into an uncanny place nighttime.

 

Uncanny.

 

Oh. I have a great idea.

 

“John, we are going to the forest tomorrow.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“We’ll look for the animal that attacked you.”

 

“Why, you’re planning to take my revenge?” He jerks his head from the road to cast me a sly glance.

 

“Ha ha. Don’t be ridiculous. I should know what’s there in that forest.”

 

“There is nothing to know. It was probably… a bear or something like that.”

 

“There is no bear in this forest, John. If it was, I’d know. No. And your ‘something like that’ is a bit vague, don’t you think?

 

“Why does it matter anyway? Isn’t it enough knowing that it is dangerous?”

 

“I have been living here for months. I go to the forest almost everyday. If there is something out there, I must know it.”

 

“Sherlock, I don’t really think it’s a good idea.”

 

“Why not? You have your gun with you. Think it as if we’re going to …well, hunting.”

 

His whole posture changes with my words. He tightens his grip on steering wheel, knuckles turning to white. He takes a deep breath before speaking.

 

“Sherlock. If there is something that I don’t wish to experience in this life, you can be sure that it’s hunting. So your offer is hardly appealing.”

 

It’s a bit sharp for John. I don’t understand his sudden reaction so I note it in my mind palace for further examination.

 

“Well then, think it as an exploration trip. A scientific search.”

 

“Nope. We’re not doing that. You are not doing that. So dangerous.”

 

“You went there this morning on your own, John!”

 

“And it was also very dangerous and stupid. But I had to. Anyway, we are not repeating that Sherlock.”

 

The car stops abruptly and I realize we are home. John half turns to me on his seat.

 

“Do you hear me, Sherlock? We’re not going there. _You_ are not going there, ok?”

 

His eyes widen, his lips become a thin line and his whole face forms as if he is pleading.

 

“Please?” He asks hopefully.

 

“Okay. No forest.” Even as I say those words, I make my mind to act otherwise.

 

Poor John. He doesn’t know that my courage only rises with his efforts to the contrary. And there is another thing he misses.

 

 

**I hate not knowing.**

 

* * *

When I left the house it was five am. I made my plan considering John’s sleeping routine. He has something akin order in his nightly chaoses. From my observations; he usually wakes up with a nightmare at three am and sleeps again in about two hours, then gets up seven in the morning, sometimes even earlier.

 

So if I’m lucky, when I return to home he’ll still be sleeping. If I am not there is nothing to do. At least he’ll learn he shouldn’t turn me down next time.

 

The sun hasn’t risen entirely though I can see my surroundings clearly. It’s so cold. I want to wrap my coat tighter over my torso, folding my arms on my chest but I can not risk busying my hands. My steps are hasty. I am walking on a straight line. If I zigzag much, it’d only stretch my trip and I’d be late.

 

I have John’s gun with me. He must have forgotten to take it. I found it on one of the shelves in the living room. I’d not risk going upstairs and stealing it from his room anyway. I assume he is a light sleeper, considering he is a doctor and soldier. A creaking on the floor would destroy my plan.

 

I don’t understand why he so strongly objected to my forest idea. He looked sincere saying it was dangerous, yet he himself came here to gather his stuff yesterday. Surely it would be safer if we were together.

 

There is no doubt that he concerns for me. But I can’t shake the feeling he is hiding something. He was trying not to reveal much in the first morning telling about his attack. What is he afraid of?

 

At first I thought it was about the creature I saw in the forest, but why would he hide it? Yeah, it sounds a bit like fiction. But I’m a thriller writer for Christ sake, who else he’d tell it if not me?

 

But no, it wasn’t the creature. If it was, John wouldn’t have gotten through it with a simple flesh wound. He healed in a day. He didn’t even wince carrying shopping bags. If it was the wolf-like creature, he’d not be alive now, let alone walking again. His existence would cease in a few seconds.

 

Lost in my thoughts I trip over something. When I turn my back I see it’s a piece of fabric lying on the ground. Picking it from there, I realized it’s the sleeve of …an oversize oatmeal jumper.

 

I notice another piece a few metres away. This part is bigger than the first one. I read the tag; M&S, size medium. So it’s not oversize.

 

A quick examination on the ripping line shows that it was not cut or unstitched. It was teared open by a strong and sudden stretch. Not by an outside pull. A force from inside.

 

Its colour, its size, its texture and the freshness of the strains on it tell me two things.

 

 

 

**Its John’s jumper.**

 

 

 

**And it broke into pieces on his body.**

 


End file.
